


Take Me to Your River

by Homoexorcism



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Fluff, Healing, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Military Hospital, Mood Disorder, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Shiro (Voltron) is a Mess, Slow Burn, Socially Awkward Keith (Voltron), Strangers to Lovers, Therapy Dog, Traumatic Brain Injury, War, War Veteran, disenchanted shiro, keith volunteers his therapy dog, loss of limb, memory and comprehension difficulties
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2018-10-20 02:04:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10652679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Homoexorcism/pseuds/Homoexorcism
Summary: In which Shiro is a war veteran recovering from both the psychological and physical devastation of an IED explosion and Keith is a volunteer with a therapy dog.





	1. Prologue

He most remembers the smell of death. The festering of human flesh under the heat of the sun and the buzz of blowflies attracted to the rot. The smell of blood that clings to the back of the tongue until it becomes akin to choking on pennies.  Sometimes he saw the carnage, sometimes he _caused_ the carnage. Other times he never saw it but smelled it on the wind like a lingering phantom.

When it came to survival, though, there wasn’t room to dwell on the loss of human life without the psychological toll weighing one down. Like others, he managed by laughing at the type of low brow humor that would disappoint his mother. Finding humor in vulgarity became a coping mechanism when war left no room for philosophical considerations. Other times, he read the classics much to the teasing amusement of those in his squad and he snapped pictures with disposable cameras. Anything to keep his mind occupied and to pass the time.

It wasn’t until the quiet of night did he ever wonder if humans were designed to see so much devastation. If they were meant to _cause_ that much destruction.

He least remembers the explosion of a routine patrol gone awry.

He’d been three months into his deployment in Sangin, Afghanistan and it had become uncomfortably commonplace to hear about someone being shot or blown up. The territory was littered with the endless cropping up of IEDs and it instilled the type of trepidation that had them navigating the area with uneasiness. Before his accident, it’d only been a few days earlier that someone in his patrol had spotted an IED and they’d been forced to call up EOD to come disarm it. They'd been amidst disarming the bomb when it exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere and leaving lacerations in its wake.   No one had been seriously injured but relief was swallowed by the sinking feeling that their ticket had already been punched.

For Sgt. Takashi Shirogane, it certainly had.

He’d been laughing at something he could no longer remember when the explosion went off to the right of him. He remembered the pluming of hot sand as it engulfed him and the surreal sensation of being tossed into the air. (In retrospect, he imagined being flung into the air like a spinning helicopter blade was a funny and peculiar sight to behold.)

The next thing he remembered was gagging on blood, sputtering coughs as he wheezed with a collapsed lung and tried to desperately catch his breath. The taste of dirt at the back of his throat and the dulling sting of shrapnel lodged deep into flesh that was numbed out with coursing adrenaline. His vision had swum as he tried to focus on the blue of the sky, as if he'd never seen a sky quite so radiant before. He'd felt the heat of pooling blood soak through his clothes and the distorted voice of their corpsman, Matt Holt, yelling commands as he tried to stop the bleeding to his right arm. 

He remembered trying to lift the injured arm to see it and realizing he couldn’t. 

 


	2. Chapter 2

 

_Been traveling these wide roads for so long_  
_My heart’s been far from you_  
_Ten-thousand miles gone_

  _Oh, I wanna come near and give ya_  
_Every part of me_  
_But there's blood on my hands_  
_And my lips aren’t clean_

* * *

* * *

 

 After receiving emergency medical treatment and recovering from extensive surgery, he’d been discharged back to Rhode Island to finish his recovery at a military hospital. He had returned home to a small town that hadn’t changed in years but felt foreign in its very existence. 

“Good morning, Shrio.” The voice is soft and feminine, British accent spilling over each enunciated word. The rhythmic clicking of her heels is muffled against the hearing loss in his right ear but he doesn’t need to hear, or look, to know the doctor is smiling around her words.

Shiro doesn’t immediately turn to acknowledge her, overcast gaze focused on the sun that’s high enough to peek over the trees. Judging by the position of the sun, he guesses it’s ten-hundred hours or, more simply, ten in the morning.

“Dr. Walsh.” He finally acknowledges in slurred, stilted speech. The trauma nurse who followed up after his surgery reassured that his speech would be back to normal with therapy and vocal exercises. Everyone keeps telling him to be patient but his patience is uncharacteristically thin these days, so he grits teeth at the sound of his voice.

“Allura.” She emphasizes with a warm, wide smile, “I just want to do a routine check-up, alright?”

 In any other scenario, her perpetually upbeat persona would be charming and her bedside manner ideal.  Instead, he finds it nauseating and patronizing.

He grunts with indifference and she takes it as consent as she slides the buds of the stethoscope into her ears. With a gloved hand, she rubs her palm against the diaphragm to warm it up. “Alright, lean forward, please.”

He shifts uncomfortably in the bed, left arm compensating for the misplaced balance of his right. He leans forward and even with her ministrations, he flinches the moment metal hits skin. The burning sensation is purely psychological and he accepts it as such. He inhales as expected, wincing with mild discomfort at the lung expansion and then exhales slowly as Allura glides the medical instrument across his back.

“I don’t hear any crackling, but I have to warn you that pneumothorax reoccurrence is common.” She guides him to lean back as she moves on to his chest where he repeats the steady breathing, “You said you quit smoking, right?”

“Uh, yeah. About—I don’t know—two years back.” Shiro confirms, deciding that the three cigarettes to mark each month of his deployment didn’t count. The tension he’d built in his shoulders eases when she pulls away from him.

He watches her sling the device back around her neck and pluck the clipboard from the end of his bed. With it in hand, Shiro watches her pen glide across paper.

 “Two years, huh? Congratulations. It’s not easy to quit.” She smiles broadly and he knows she’s being sincere.

He mimics the smile for her benefit more than his own.

“Alright, I’m going to look at your eyes next. Are you experiencing any light sensitivity?” She removes an ophthalmoscope from the breast pocket of her lab coat before setting the clipboard back down, “Fatigue or headaches?”

Shiro doesn’t really know how to answer her question. He feels fatigued but he’s not sure it’s related to the lights, “Fatigued, I guess.” He confirms, furrowing his brows as if she’s asking him a trick question.

Allura doesn’t seem bothered by the notion, “Alright, keep your gaze forward.” When he stills, she carefully examines each eye, “Good. Now follow the light this time.”

When she repeats the pattern, Shiro has a difficult time keeping track. Allura doesn’t have to explain to him the effects of a traumatic brain injury for him to know why, but she does anyway.

She reads it off to him like a grocery list, detailing all the ways his life won’t be the same until he’s confident that his brain is melting through his nose. As if he needs more of that. As if losing his arm or hearing hasn’t been enough, God adds traumatic brain injury into the fucked-up cocktail of his life.

“Are you experiencing any pain?” As she says this, she hands him a laminated piece of paper with a pain scale in smiley faces. She explains it to him carefully but by the time she gets to the violet of ‘Moderate Pain’, the colors have blurred together into an undifferentiated mass of swirls.

“Zero.”

When she doesn’t immediately respond, he flicks his gaze back up to her expectantly, “Zero.” He repeats.

“No pain?” Her lips are pursed together once she’s asked, as if she doesn’t believe him and maybe she shouldn’t. She challenges him only for a moment before writing down his response, “Numbness?”

“Yeah.”

She glances up from her writing, concern evident on her face, “Alright, can you tell me where?”

Shiro pauses in consideration and then, very carefully, raises his left hand to make a downward sweeping gesture from his head.

For the first time that he’s been here, Allura frowns.

 

* * *

* * *

 

When he’s able to, he takes small walks around his hospital room. His footing is unsteady from brain trauma, but even a few steps are welcomed compared to wasting away in a hospital bed.

Once fatigue sets in, he wheels the intravenous drip to the side of a maroon arm-chair and perches himself on the lumpy cushion, one leg tucked beneath him as he does. He briefly considers turning on the television mounted to the wall, but the last time he did that it ended up serving as background noise than actual entertainment.

Instead, he looks out the window and counts the cars in the parking lot. He gets to twenty-three when there’s a knock on his open door.

When he slides his gaze towards the open door, he expects to find Allura. Instead, he lands on a man with eyes like a brewing storm. Ebony curls frame his face and high cheek bones compliment the sharpness of his jawline. The cherry-red of his bomber jacket contrasts sharply against the alabaster room and frayed black jeans hug lanky legs.

Shiro sucks air through his teeth. Awe dissolves to creeping vulnerability at the newcomer and it’s not _just_ because he’s dressed in a paper-thin hospital gown.

He opens his mouth to ask who he is and what he’s doing there but words catch in his throat when he notes the German shepherd proudly sat next to its handler.  

“Uh—Takashi Shirogane, right? Dr. Walsh – sorry – _Allura--”_ Bomber jacket rolls his eyes but the lopsided smirk is more coy than annoyed, “ –thought you might be interested in getting a visit from a therapy dog.” It’s not a question but his voice raises at the end anyway.

Mauve eyes blink and then bomber jacket is extending his right hand for Shiro to shake which he does after a moment, “I’m Keith. Keith Kogane. And this—“ He drops Shiro’s hand to crouch beside the dog, scratching between two pointed ears, “—is Orion. He’s been a service dog for five years and a therapy dog for one. Would you like to pet him?”

Shiro gives Keith a cursory look at ‘service dog’ but doesn’t question why someone who looks perfectly healthy needs one.

Shiro thinks back to when him and Matt were in college and how they’d stop off in the library during mid-terms and finals to visit the therapy dogs. It always seemed like a silly excuse to goof off but it _had_ made him feel better.

After a moment, Shiro nods and extends his hand for Orion to sniff, “Hey, bud.” He forces himself to enunciate over the slur of his speech. As he does, Keith slackens his hold on the leash and lets Orion approach. Only, instead of a sniff, he bypasses the hand entirely in favor of planting himself at Shiro’s side where he lazily rests a head on the knee that isn’t bent.

Keith laughs with a lopsided grin, “He likes you.” He rises from his crouched position and leans against the wall, folding arms over his chest as he observes.

It’s gradual, but a small grin tugs at the corner of Shiro’s mouth as he smooths a hand over the dog’s head and says, “Shiro.” He starts and then after a pause, “You can – uh – call me Shiro.”

Keith smiles too but Shiro is too preoccupied to notice, “Alright, Shiro.” He confirms, as if testing out how the name tastes on his tongue.

To Shiro’s relief, Keith doesn’t say much during the visit. The silence in the room isn’t consuming or riddled with awkwardness. Instead, it’s content, as if all three of them are enjoying each other’s presence without the pressure to make conversation.

Shiro notes the deep-violet of the vest Orion wears and while Shrio can make out the individual letters of ‘Altea Academy for Graduate Service Dogs’ across the vest, it takes a concentrated moment for him to comprehend the meaning of the words. In a plastic, transparent side-pocket he can see an ID card along with the easier to comprehend ‘PTSD SERVICE K-9’ written across the top.

“Are you a vet?” To emphasize, Shiro gestures to the ID tag before scratching at Orion’s cheek while the dog licks at his wrist in reciprocation.

It takes Keith a moment to realize Shiro is talking to him and he shifts uncomfortably under the question, “No.” He pauses after a moment, twisting his lips to the side before continuing, “You are though, right? They ran an article on you in the newspaper –you know, small town and all that – plus, you were like a star quarterback way back, right? Same high school, but—“ Keith laughs, shrugging with the shoulder that isn’t against the wall, “—think I was in eighth grade when you would’ve graduated.”

Shiro processes Keith’s word carefully, trying to remember if he’s ever seen anyone quite like Keith around town and recalling the article that Matt’s younger sister, Katie, had read to him more than a handful of days ago. It was a small excerpt on him, pushed to a corner on the front page of which he was thankful for. It was small-town hero mixed with tragedy and a dash of miracle. It’d left him feeling hollowed out and disconnected.  

“Yeah, served in Afghanistan. Marine Corps.” He answers stiffly, expecting to be asked about his arm or accident, but it never comes.

Instead, Keith pushes off the wall and sits beside him on the windowsill, feet dangling off the ground as he crosses his legs at the ankles, “I volunteer here every Tuesday. If you’d like, we can come back next week.”

“Yeah – Yeah, I’d like that.”  

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a minute, guys. I didn't mean to leave this collecting dust but I got caught up with grad school. I'm finally back with an update and I hope you guys enjoy.

Shiro sits next to an open window and with an arm extended outside, he catches raindrops with an upturned palm. His nostrils flare at the smell of rain against heated asphalt and he closes his eyes so he can hear the rhythmic pitter-patter of rain against the glass. It rained in Afghanistan, but never quite like this. He had missed it.

At the roll of distant thunder, however, he opens his eyes as a sense of unease unfurls itself in his stomach. There was a time where he enjoyed the sound of thunder, but now it reminds him of distant gunshots and chest rattling explosions.

On the opposite side of the room, a television hangs above the room and plays a soap-opera that falls on deaf ears. Everything becomes background noise for Shiro. A means of distraction from intrusive memories or the restless nights when he’s jolted awake by visions of his own death or the lingering sensation of thick, hot blood at the back of his throat.

There are some things he can’t shake off.

When someone knocks on the open door, he withdraws a rain soaked arm and glances over a shoulder towards the tall, athletically built woman standing there.

“Good morning, Shiro.” Despite her threatening disposition, she smiles wide and her voice is silvery.

“Dr. Balmera.” Shiro greats the orthopedic physician. He wipes the rain soaked hand on his sweatpants.

“Routine check-up.” She announces and Shiro turns in his seat to face her fully, uncrossing stiffening legs as he does.

“Heard they’re discharging you next week.” As she talks, she presses gentle fingers against the lymph nodes on his neck, “Are you excited?”

Reality presses down on his shoulders and it occurs to him that he hadn’t thought that far ahead. Sure, he’d been present when his rehabilitation team talked to him about his outpatient plans and recovery, but no one had asked him how he felt about it. They talked in facts and, in a way, that was more tolerable than addressing his emotions.

Shiro knits his brows at the question, “Yeah.” He hears himself answer the question from somewhere far away. In another room, maybe.

When his lymph nodes show no signs of swelling, she sanitizes her hands again before pulling on a pair of latex gloves with an audible snap at the wrist.

Shiro shifts his weight to his left and presses his elbow into the arm rest as Shay inspects the amputation site, “You’re healing nicely. No drainage or sign of infection.”

Shiro looks at the closed wound. The area is tender where the skin puckers together from stitches. What will eventually be a scar, spreads up the remainder of his bicep and trails off on his pectoral. The wound itself is a vibrant red that bleeds into deep splotches of purple from unhealed bruising.

Shiro turns his head away and flinches when she touches him.

Then she asks the question that Shiro’s come to dread, “Are you experiencing any pain?”

There isn’t an easy way to explain that numbness is clogging up his existence. That when everyone else is here, he is elsewhere. His body isn’t his own until he’s reminded of its existence; a glance in a mirror; a pinch of a needle; the blue of the sky.

“Sometimes I feel pain in my right arm, “ He begins slowly, stumbling over the word ‘right’ when it refuses to roll off his tongue, “As if it’s still there.”

He sits up now and out of reflex, he moves his left hand to touch the arm but he’s only met with empty space.

“Can you describe the pain for me?”

“Yeah, it’s like a,” He knows there’s a word to describe the sensation but he can’t remember it, “fire.” It serves as a painful reminder of what he’s lost and highlights the fear of what he might never get back.

“So it feels like it’s burning, then?” Shay offers, filling in the blank for Shiro.

She hesitates and then continues when Shiro doesn’t respond, “It’s not uncommon for people to experience phantom pain after an amputation.” She grabs her clipboard and her pen scratches against paper, “We’ll keep an eye on it and if it persists, we can try a combination of muscle relaxers and NSAIDs. “

Shiro half listens, gaze drifting back towards the open window when he catches a flash of lightning out of his peripheral.

When Shay is finished, a nurse comes in to change his bandages and despite her encouragement for him to take a walk around for exercise, Shiro remains planted in his spot by the open window.

* * *

  
When noon rolls around, the same nurse delivers a lunch of bland chicken noodle soup, crackers, and a salad that always looks better than it tastes.

He doesn’t eat it at first, unmoved from his perch by the window as the rain begins to die out. When it becomes a light sprinkle, he finally pulls the rolling tray towards himself and tries to find something on television to keep him from missing the taste of a cold beer and reheated pizza.

He settles for a reality television show centered around catty woman with too much money and unapologetically long nails. It’s the right dose of mind numbing entertainment and, after all, who doesn’t like watching D-list celebrities rip each other’s hair extensions out?

Eating with only one arm, Shiro had learned, posed an unexpected challenge but he felt that he’d gotten the hang of it so far.

Choosing low-maintenance foods certainly helped.

He takes his time when eating, stirring the contents of the bowl lazily. When he can no longer stomach the tasteless chicken or the staling crackers, he pushes it away and washes it down with ginger-ale. Admittedly, he’s had worse.

Not too long after he’s finished, another knock on the door interrupts his thoughts. Only this time, it’s a welcomed visitor.

“Shiro!” Katie greets excitedly. Despite having only seen each other a few days ago, the Holt sibling acts as if they haven’t see each other in ages as she embraces him.

It’s unexpected and Shiro laughs into the embrace as he wraps his arm around her torso once he’s found his balance.

When she pulls back, Shiro takes the time to look her over as she sets a powder blue gift bag on a nearby table, “Did you cut your hair?”

Katie’s hair had been down to her lower back only days ago but now it was cut to a boyish length, choppy and crudely uneven as it framed a freckled face.

To this, Katie reaches up to run fingers through uneven bangs with sincere pride, “Like it?” She smiles broadly, “A friend did it.”

“Your mom must love that.” Shiro laughs again, shifting in his seat as Katie hops up onto the empty bed.

“She hates it, “ Katie confirms, “but I’m also eighteen now, so.”

Shiro wasn’t sure he could pinpoint the exact moment Katie had begun rebelling against her parents, but he always had a feeling it was related to Matt’s decision to enlist when she was still in high school.

He supposed every adolescent went through a healthy stint of rebellion, though.

He certainly had.

Shiro shakes his head, “What’d your friend use to cut it? A pocket knife?” He teases, resting his cheek on his knuckles.

Katie rolls her eyes, “Kitchen scissors.” She twists her lips to the side in a pout, “It was all he had.”

Shiro cocks his brow, “He, huh? Like, a boyfriend, maybe?” He smirks when Katie visibly bristles.

“ _No_.” She sighs, “You sound like mom.”

At this, Katie lays back on the bed with her legs still dangling off the edge. She turns her head to look at the television, glasses crooked as she does, “Mom says you’re moving in after you get discharged.”

Shiro follows her gaze to the television where a blonde woman cry-yells with a mascara streaked face at another woman. Over _what_ , he’s not sure.

“Only temporarily.” He moves his hand to bite the corner of his thumbnail.

Shiro loved the holt family but it was still an unwelcome transition.

He’d met Matt in elementary school and had grown up alongside him. The two were inseparable. For that reason, their families intertwined and when Shiro’s parents passed during his adolescent years, the Holt’s absorbed him into the family as if he’d always been there.

They still did, even when he’d skipped town for two years after college without even so much as a ‘goodbye.’

Now they were offering him a place to stay where he could recover and all Shiro could focus on was his glaring loss of independence.

“We’ll have to make pizza to celebrate.” Katie says as she abruptly sits up, laughing, “Do you remember when Matty and you made pizza?”

Shiro _did_ remember. They’d been seventeen, still in high school and left alone to house sit for a long weekend as the Holt’s celebrated their wedding anniversary up in Maine. Ordering pizza would’ve been easier, but Matt had seen _one_ episode of a cooking show that featured homemade pizza’s and he’d convinced himself and Shiro they could make a pizza.

“We were _covered_ in flour and tomato sauce.” Shiro laughs, covering his mouth with a hand to stifle it.

“You guys were so proud of yourselves, too.” Katie kicks off her shows and draws her legs up on the bed to pretzel them, “All that effort just for it to fall to the bottom of the oven. I swear it still smells like burnt cheese whenever mom uses it.”

“We spent, like, four hours cleaning it, too.” He smiles, recalling how Matt and him had taken turns scraping melted cheese and burnt dough from the walls of the oven. It had only been a fraction of the mess they’d made in the kitchen and an eight year old Katie had smugly sat back to watch with a ‘told you so’.

“I don’t think mom ever found out, either.” Katie shakes her head, smiling fondly at the memory as she laughs.

But then, all too suddenly, she’s crying. Her shoulders shake with a sob and she buries her face in her hands out of embarrassment. Her knees draw up protectively and she’s _small_. As if she’s eight again, crying on the playground with a bloodied knee after falling off the monkey bars. Only, it’s different and Shiro knows it.

“Hey, hey, you’re okay,” Shiro gets to his feet and finds his balance, using the discarded lunch table to steady himself until he’s by Katie’s side, “It’s okay.”

She continues to cry, breath hitching with each sob as she chokes out, “I miss Matt.” The confession only makes her cry harder, tears staining a flushed face as she finally looks up at Shiro, “I miss him so much.”

Shiro frowns, “I miss him too.” He admits and puts his arm around Katie, pulling her against his side where he rests his chin on top of her head, “But he’s going to be okay, and so are you. He’ll be home before you know it.” He speaks slowly when words don’t come to him as easily as they once did.

When Katie calms down enough to listen, Shiro tells her stories from when he was overseas. The time Matt spent working alongside civilian doctors in villages and the families he was able to help in doing so. The kids who were excited whenever Shiro, or another member of their squadron, shared hard-candies or other treats from care packages with them. The jar of saffron he’d received from an adolescent girl who worked the fields and the dumb games they played on base to keep themselves entertained.

Some of the stories he recalls, takes him to places he doesn’t want to be, but he shakes those memories off.

At some point, the two end up laying down in the bed together. Katie is curled up at his side with her back to his chest where she’s fallen asleep after her tears have dried up and the laughter has died out. When sleep doesn’t come as easy, Shiro closes his eyes and listens to the rain and the sound of her breathing.

* * *

  
At some point, he does fall asleep and is only awakened when a nurse comes to check on them. By then, the sun is streaming in through the window and Katie has slipped out of the bed and is watching television in the chair with her legs draped over the armrest.

After the nurse wheels the lunch cart out of his room, Shiro sits up groggily with a grunt, “Surprised I fell asleep.” He mumbles, leaning to grab his water from the night stand before taking a sip.

With the nurse gone, Katie stands and retrieves the forgotten gift bag, “I got you something.” She smiles as she holds the bag out for Shiro to take.

He accepts it with a arched brow and peers inside, pulling out the glitter covered tissue paper before finally retrieving a book from the bottom of the bag. He recognizes the cover before the title, smiling fondly, “Virginia Woolf?”

“I remember you saying _To The Lighthouse_ is one of your favorite books,” Katie smiles, shoulders relaxing when her gift is well received.

“It is,” He confirms, thumbing through the pages. It had been a book that he’d kept on his person at all times when he was overseas and the wear and tear of it had been a sign of it. It didn’t surprise him to learn that his own copy had been lost in the carnage of the IED explosion.

He tries not to dwell on the imagery of pages fluttering around him or a burnt cover.

“Thanks, Katie.” He says quietly, admiring the sleek, untouched cover, “it means a lot”

“I hope it’s not too much. I know,” Katie pauses and chews on her bottom lip in careful consideration, “that it might be hard to read with your TBI but I know the book is important to you.”

“I love it.” Shiro repeats, a sincere, but sad, smile on his face.

For the time being, he sets the book down and the two talk about Katie’s life. Her friends, some of whom Shiro remembers, like Lance, and others he doesn’t know. She talks about her college plans and her job at a retro gaming store downtown.

Around six, Katie gets a text message from her mother about coming home and after they’ve hugged and said their goodbyes, Shiro lays back on the bed and stares up at the ceiling.

And while he’s not entirely sure why, he cries.

* * *

  
The next day isn’t that much different from the last with the exception of physical therapy. While walking has gotten more manageable, his balance is still shaky and he tires out quicker than he’s willing to admit.

Despite a history of athletics and bootcamp, he’s covered in a sheen of sweat that is fostered more through frustration than physical activity. He pushes himself harder than he has to and tries not to let his physical, or mental, limitations eat away at him. It’s difficult for him to focus on the verbal instructions and he hates having to make his physical therapist repeat things. Even worse, the communication between his brain and his motor movements feel hazy, out of reach. He just wants to feel normal.

Even when he’s finished, there’s little relief to be found. A part of him is boiling over while another parts tell him to have patience. When a nurse offers to help him back to his room, he tries to reject the offer by walking ahead of her but his rehabilitation team has already made it clear to him that his TBI puts him at risk for a fall. Whether he likes it or not, he knows he’s under her supervision.

When he reaches his room, he’s surprised to find that he has a visitor waiting for him. Well, two visitors.

Keith is sitting in the chair by the window and his mauve eyes rival the storm clouds building behind him. His hair is pulled back into a sloppy ponytail that makes him look younger than he is. The bomber jacket is replaced with a slate gray hoodie and a pair of black joggers hug slender legs.

In his hands, he holds the Virgina Woolf novel and seems to be reading the first few pages.

Orion, who’d been laying by Keith’s feet, lifts his head at the sight of Shiro and begins to wag a lazy tail.

As if caught misbehaving, Keith hastily closes the book and sets it back on the windowsill, “Sorry,” He says quickly, “Allura said you were in physical therapy and that it’d be a little while longer. I could come back later, if you want.” To busy his hands, he cracks his knuckles.

Shiro relaxes a tense jaw, realizing that he must look as pissed as he feels. He closes his eyes for a moment and exhales through flared nostrils, “You’re fine.”

The nurse who’d been trailing after Shiro catches up, unamused, “Mr. Shirogane,” She scolds like a mother, arms folded over her chest, “I understand that you’re frustrated but you can't just walk out-- _oh_ , Keith. “

Keith gives a slight smile and wave in acknowledgement. Shiro can only assume the staff is familiar with the volunteer.

The nurse purses her lips together as she looks between the two, “I'll leave you to your visit.” She concedes, giving Shiro a disapproving look that takes him back to adolescence.

When she leaves, Shiro smirks, “Not like I can stamp my feet and cross my arms in defiance, can I?” He asks no one in particular but looks at Keith.

Keith laughs, “Sounds like you’re in trouble.”

“Guess so,” Shiro rolls a shoulder in response, lingering in the doorway for a moment to drink in the sight of Keith. He’s not sure why he’s so excited to see the man when they barely talked last week, but he is.

He walks across the room, occasionally using furniture for balance. Keith moves to the edge of his seat, as if he’s prepared to help if asked, but Shiro never does.

In a way, Shiro is relieved that Keith doesn’t rush to his aide to coddle him as if he’s made of glass.

He sits on the edge of the bed, diagonal from Keith where he can pet Orion, “Have you read her work before?”

When Keith knits his brows, Shiro gestures to the discarded book with a tilt of his head.

Keith turns in his chair to look at the book as he plucks it from the window sill, “No, never.” He flicks through the first few pages again, “Is it any good?”

“One of my favorites,” He admits, “but it’s not everyone’s cup of tea. I was going to read it, but,” He trails off, staring down at the tile, “Well, it doesn’t matter.”

Orion affectionately licks Shiro’s hand and he laughs, patting the bed beside him in encouragement for the dog to jump up. When he does, Shiro scoots backwards so that Orion can lay his head on his thigh.

“Want me to read it to you?” Keith questions softly, still flipping through the pages.

Shiro lifts his gaze to look at Keith. It’s an unexpected question and at first, Shiro is annoyed. He assumes Keith is asking out of pity, as if he somehow knows that Shiro spent all morning re-reading the same paragraph because none of it sunk in. That he knows concentrating on the text for too long, gives him a headache.

But he doesn’t and underneath that moody exterior of Keith, there’s a genuine gentleness.

He scratches behind Orion’s ears, “Sure.”

Keith draws his legs up on the chair and pretzels them the way Katie does. With the book open in his hands, he rests his forearms on his thighs and starts reading aloud.

When Keith speaks, his voice has a calming rasp to it. It was deep, but light. The more he spoke, the more apparent the rasp became and it wouldn’t surprise Shiro to learn that it was born from a introverted personality.

Shiro closes his eyes as he listens to the story, finding it a bit easier to follow along when he doesn’t have to make sense of the printed word. When his mind does wander, he follows Keith’s voice back to the story.

 

* * *

 

“ _It was a disguise; it was the refuge of a man afraid to own his own feelings, who couldn’t say, This is what I_ —” Keith stops, knitting his brows together as he looks up at Shiro, “Can I be honest?”

Shiro opens his eyes to meet Keith’s gaze and the hand that’s been petting Orion comes to rest atop his head, “Sure.”

“This book is terrible,” Keith holds no punches as he looks at the book, “I mean, they don’t do anything. They’re not even talking. They’re just _thinking_.” He expresses this with open exasperation, “What’s the point?”

There’s a moment of silence between them and then Shiro’s laughing, a deep laugh from his core at the unabashed statement.

Keith’s lips twist to the corner of his mouth in a pout but he continues, “I mean it. Her sentences are never ending and everything about the way she changes perspectives is jarring.”

“You’re cute when you’re--”

“Don’t say angry.” Keith warns.

“-- _passionate_ ” Shiro finishes with a smirk, “ Maybe you should try reading it on your own.”

Keith doesn’t respond to the suggestion outside of putting the book back on the windowsill and then folding his arms over his chest in another pout, “Not sure how that’ll help.”

Keith tries to dig in but Shiro only smiles in response.

Not getting the attention he desires, Orion whines softly before attempting to make himself a lapdog by climbing half way onto Shiro’s lap, “Alright, alright, big guy.” Shiro snorts, petting him again.

“ _Orion_ ,” Keith halfheartedly scolds but the German shepherd merely wags his tail in response.

“They’re discharging me next week,” Shiro says after a moment, snorting when Orion rests his head back on his knee.

“Oh yeah?” Keith cracks his knuckles even when they stop popping, “You must be relieved. Hospitals are--”

“Depressing.” Shiro fills in the blank for him, “It’s fucking depressing.” He laughs.

Keith laughs as well, “So, what’s the first thing you wanna do when you get out?”

“Truthfully?” Shiro tilts his head in thought, “Drink a cold beer and have a slice of pizza.”

“Alright, then it’s a date.” Keith says suddenly, self-assured.

“ _What_?”

“A platonic date.” Keith clarifies, as if _that’s_ Shiro’s concern, “I’ll take you out for pizza and beer to celebrate your freedom.”

“That’s not--” Shiro laughs, “That’s now how you ask someone out, Keith.”

Keith rolls his shoulder in a shrug, “That’s how I ask people out, what’s the issue?”

Shiro can’t help but laugh again, smiling at Keith, “Yeah, alright, I’ll take you up on the offer.” He shakes his head, "When I get out, you can treat me to pizza."

"And beer." Keith confirms with a lop-sided grin. 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
